


Pitch

by RyMagnatar



Series: Love Senses [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Singing, Drunkenness, Humanstuck, M/M, link to a song in the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a party full of drunken kids, Dave goes wandering around in hopes to find someone or something entertaining. He comes across Eridan on a balcony, playing a little music and enjoying the night air alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitch

For all the wealth that this little princess was said to have, her party was -in your humble opinion- utterly lame. The booze was little more than a bowl of spiked punch and yet there was so much around that everyone and their grandma was about two sips from utterly trashed at any given time. You’d already caught Rose about as sloshed as you’d ever seen her, talking about the true form of fruit with a girl so close they were nearly breathing the same air.

You completely lost your other two friends too. That only mattered because you’d been scouring the party for a good hour and there wasn’t anything that caught your eye, even as drunk and drunker you were getting. Not even sitting in on the karaoke room gave you any luck. Just a headache and a growing disgust in humanity’s sickening musical tastes.

All this led you to a desire escape. The back door was a no-go with the swarm of grabby drunk dancers grinding out on the patio to the most overused you trash you could barely call music. The first floor of the house was milling couples and drunk party games -including the karaoke room- all of which you had no interest in tonight. That left the front door and total abandonment of the party, or up.

You went up.

Surprisingly enough, the second floor was almost completely empty. You say almost because you found John and his date up there. They were in what looked like your classic movie set study with stuffed heads and a bear skin rug and tall backed armchairs. They were crouching behind furniture with makeshift weapons playing hunter together. You left them alone. You weren’t going to cockblock your bro because you were a little bored.

After taking a quick break in a bathroom that you swear is decorated in plated silver on the sink and handles everywhere, you keep poking your head into all the semi-dark rooms. Surprisingly, you catch no more couples loitering in a room doing what one would do in the bedroom of a party whilst drunk. Just before you’re about to head downstairs and try your luck again, you catch sight of a glass door left unopened.

On approach, you can see through the glass panes of the door out onto what looks like a stone balcony. There’s a couple of little plush porch chairs and, to your curiosity, a guy sitting on one of them with a guitar slung across his lap. You stand on the other side of the glass, watching this boy with his head bowed over the guitar’s neck and the glint of rings on his fingers. But you can’t really hear him at all.

You gently push down the handle on the door and nudge it open, just an inch, just enough to hear him play. You were hoping beyond hope that he was at least semi-good, or else you were going to give up hope completely on this party.

What you got was even better than that.

[He began to sing.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3g-pY480e1k)

_My love comes staggered_  
Dog-eared and haggard  
But you love, it never comes at all

_Your legs are coated_  
 _With anti-climb paint_  
 _But I try  
_ _And climb them all the same_

_This is the way we do it_  
 _This is the way we’ve always done it_  
 _Though why  
_ _I don’t know_

_You can be soft and gracious_  
 _I guess that’s why I'm so tenacious_  
 _But I  
_ _Shouldn’t bother_

It’s hearbreaking. You hold onto the wood paneling, pushing the door open slightly so you can hear better. It’s perfect. You haven’t heard this song anywhere but your own collections of music. It just wasn’t floating around in the popular circles.

_The flow is broken with conversation_  
 _I fall though_  
 _You know how I feel anyway_  


_You said you were meant for me_  
 _At the turn of the century  
_ _Can the same thing still be said today_

_This is the way we do it_  
 _This is the way we’ve always done it_  
 _Though why  
_ _I don’t know_

_You can be soft and gracious_  
 _I guess that’s why I'm so tenacious_  
 _But I  
_ _Shouldn’t bother_

_So there you go again_  
 _With your anti-climb paint_  
 _But don’t bother  
_ _I’m done with all the trying_

As the last note begins to fade into the air, you clap.

He jumps so high he nearly drops the guitar onto the ground. Spinning around, he looks at you with blue eyes so wide and dark they look almost purple. You push open the glass door and walk out onto the balcony. “Congratulations,” you say, “You win best song choice of the night.”

He makes a face like he’s just sucked a lemon after a spoonful of sugar and grumbles, “Hardly surprisin’ with the way they screech an’ carry on like dyin’ cats.”

“So I’m not the only one who’s ears have been bleeding over that abomination they call music.” You walk across the balcony. He no longer looks at you like you’ve invaded his private sanctum and even lessens his frown somewhat when you drag over a chair and sit near him. It’s a little chilly up here out in the dark and away from the claustrophobia inducing party below.

Up close you can see that he’s got a dyed strip of hair that curls down over his forehead and he’s wearing a thick striped scarf that’s pulled open enough so you can see his throat underneath. “So where’d you get the guitar?”

“I gave it to Fef.”

After a moment of your non-understanding silence, he scratches behind his neck and explains, “Fef, that’s the girl havin’ this party. Well she an’ I are friends an’ I gave her this guitar last year for her birthday. It was collectin’ dust in her bedroom though when I went lookin’ for it tonight.”

“Her bedroom?” You raise an eyebrow.

He frowns at you, “She an’ I are really close friends.”

You give him a smirk in reply. “Just friends.”

The guy strums the guitar in silence, not really making anything more than some melodic noise, but he eventually nods. He’s got that kicked puppy look with a slight pout of his lower lip and the downcast gaze. Watching him, you get this warm sensation in your gut and you just know that you’re getting pretty sweet on him. “What a bitch,” you say into the near silence, “Given a guitar and she just lets it go to waste? Let me see that.”

He gives over the instrument with a startled expression. For being such close friends, though, he doesn’t argue with your description of this Fef girl. You give him a little smile once you get the guitar from him and he gets a little rosy around the cheeks and looks away. You love the way his emotions fly across his face, one after another, showing you everything he’s feeling as he feels it.

You strum the chords. Testing out a few majors and minors and nod in approval. “Sounds in tune, even though it’s been in such disuse.”

“I tuned it.” His empty hands have resorted to picking at the end of his scarf. “My mother made me have lessons since I was seven. I can tune as well as I can shoot.”

You let a minor chord vibrate into silence as you think about that. “Shooting? Like guns?”

He gives you a cocky grin, “Father opposed only the arts in my extracurricular activities and so I’ve been shootin’ since I was eleven.” Nameless musician boy becomes more interesting with every word he says.

“What’s your favorite kind of gun? My bro Dirk is in the military and I’ve done a little shooting with him. I’m okay I guess but I prefer the sword.”

“Rifles mostly,” his grin grows. “The higher powered an’ longer the range the better. What kind a swords do you use?”

Your fingers pick out a simple, repetitive melody as you talk, “Katana’s mostly. My brothers both use them and decided that my extracurriculars should be swords and turntables.”

“Turntables? You DJ?”

“Hell yeah I do.”

He leans forwards, eyes narrowing as he looks you over, “You couldn’t be… no…but…” He shakes his head, “You’re a Strider, aren’t you.”

“My reputation precedes me.” You can’t stop yourself from smirking. He was hooked. Let it never be said that a Strider walked away from a party without someone swooning behind him.

“Give me that,” he snatches the guitar from your dreamily moving fingertips. “You have that stupid music blog, don’t you! The one that mocked my favorite songs for the last three weeks straight!”

“What.”

He stands up, glaring at you angrily. “For your information, even if the song’s direct lyrics are silly and about rodents, the meanin’ behind the words can have a deep ecological significance.”

“What.”

“And,” he continued with barely a breath in between words, “You have to have a lot of diaphragm control, a healthy throat and fuckloads of practice to be able to sing fuckin’ scremo properly ‘cause it is not simply an uncultured Neanderthals’ war screech set to electronic rock!”

"Oh my God," you stare at him.

Flushed cheeks, furrowed brows, spouting musical gibberish about your Bro's blog. You've never seen anyone so passionately, furiously beautiful.  He's sucking in a breath, presumably to keep ranting, and you blurt out the words, "I think I love you."

The boy reels back, eyes wide and frightened, clutching the guitar to his chest. "W-what?"

You close your mouth. Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. You stare at him and try to think of something to say, but your brain has apparently decided to take a momentary holiday after thrusting you into this situation unawares and drunk. Lacking anything new to say, you parrot yourself. “I think I love you.”

“But… what?”

“Don’t you mean why?” So this is what your heart feels like during a marathon. You’re pretty damn sure your chest is damn near exploding.

He sits down with a _whumpf_ on the padded porch chair, guitar across his knees and staring at you. “What?”

Looks like he’s stuck on record too. Well, spinning and mixing those was your specialty so you flex your fingers and hold up your hands to gesture as you talk. “That blog you hate is my brother’s, not mine. I do photography and shitty comics online. He bitches about music but all he says is backwards and flip-flopped. It’s for the irony.”

“Irony?” he blinks at you.  You’re waiting for that light of understanding to show up in his eyes, but know it never will.

“It’s complicated and ultimately indescribable.” You really had to live it to understand it. That was the only way you got it, after all. “So I don’t even know what songs you were talking about.”

“Oh.” His cheeks start turning darker and darker red.

You lick your lips and decide to blame it on the booze warming your gut as you ask, “Anyway, can I kiss you now?”

He squeaks.

He literally squeaks. It’s unbearably cute. You are done for. His ears are bright red and his mouth hangs open like a fish. You wait a moment but when it looks like he’s not going to say anything, you get up from your chair. Closing his mouth with a brush of your fingertips, you lean in and kiss him lightly. You do it quick, not wanting to give him a chance to reject you. You begin to lean back when you feel a sharp pull on the front of your shirt. “Wait,” he breathes out, “you were serious?” The guitar begins to slip from his lap but you grab it and pull it aside.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He actually stops and looks at you. Tilting his head from side to side. After studious silence, he said, “but we don’t know anything about each other!”

Crouching in front of him, between your chair and his, you shrug. “So?”

“So you can’t just go around kissing people you don’t know.”

“Yeah I can.” You lean in and steal another kiss. “I just did it twice.”

He splutters, pulling back from you, “I don’t even know your name!”

“Dave Strider. And you are?”

“Eridan Ampora.”

You hold out your hand to shake. He looks at it suspiciously but then takes it. You grin and lean in. He pulls his hand from yours in a flash and covers his mouth. “No you don’t.” His words are muffled, his brows are furrowed.

You can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he’s being. “All right. All right. So lets get to know each other, Eridan.”

“You first,” He keeps his hand firmly in place.

Sighing, you sit back in your seat and get ready to talk when a voice calls out, “There you are!” The shout makes you both jump and turn around. In the doorway, framed in the light from the hall and in an enormous pink dress of glitter and ruffles, stood the hostess. Her cheeks were pink as her lips and she held a nearly empty wineglass. Her tiara was off center atop a pile of curly hair. She comes storming across the balcony. “Have you been here the whole time? And look you dragged this poor soul into your moping!”

Your headache was returning with her high pitched voice.

“Fef, I wasn’t-,”

“You even have my guitar out!” She picked up the instrument, holding it out in her gloved hand. She looks at it with a wrinkled nose and a frown. “Geeze, do you have to try and play this every time you come over? You gave it to _me,_ remember?”

“You never use it,” he mumbles, head lowering.

“Well yeah. I don’t play guitar. Honestly, you had this thing for years! I thought this was the first one that your mom got you. I don’t know why you gave it to me last year.”

Eridan’s shoulders have slumped. His response is lost in the folds of his scarf.

“Wow.” You say. ‘Fef’ turns to look at you.

“I’m so sorry he dragged you into this. He gets a little drunk and suddenly everything is teardrops on my guitar.” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead and heaves a mocking sigh. Dropping her hand she continues, “We can leave him be while he has his little pity party. He’ll be downstairs on the karaoke machine and wailing about his whatever it is this time in a few minutes.” She holds out her hands. Her mouth never ceasing to run, “You’re Dave Strider, right? Gosh, I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” Her eyelids flutter, “Can you play guitar? This old thing could probably use it.”

Finally the torrent of her words ends.

“Hand me the guitar,” you say. She beams and does so. Eridan’s shoulders hunch farther into himself. Sitting back a little, you strum out a familiar pattern to you. Then you give her your best, most winning smile, and you begin to sing.

_“Hey babe, this may surprise you_  
 _But when a guy gives you his oldest guitar_  
 _It means he really really really likes you._  
 _Better keep that in mind when_  
 _You talk trash about a dude’s mood_  
 _Right in front of his musically inclined_  
 _soon-to-be-boyfriend._

_“That’s right darling, you heard me._  
 _By the end of the night I’m going to be_  
 _this guy’s doting beau_  
 _so flutter your lashes at someone else, girl,_  
 _because ain’t no one drags a Strider anywhere_  
 _I’ve gotten two kisses from this hottie-in-a-scarf_  
 _and I mean to get a dozen more at least._  
  
 _“Oh no, no one drags a Strider anyplace_  
 _except to shitty parties like this one_  
 _and that’s an Egbertian honor alone._  
 _Or Amporian, depending on_  
 _How many shitty parties_  
 _That he chooses to grace with his presence._

_“So babe, please, don’t go throwing_  
 _words around if you’ve got_

_no fucking clue how to use them.”_

 You look up at her with a smirk. She turns red and then white in humiliation. You open your mouth to help inspire her to leave a little faster but suddenly you have an eyeful of Eridan. He grabs your face in both of his hands and kisses. It’s hard and eager and sloppy.

You kiss him back, laughing into it. When he pulls back for a breath, Fef has vanished. “Wow,” you say, “Seems like I should try my hand at song writing more often.”

“That was terrible,” He says. His words tumble across your lips, “But it got the point across. Crude but effective.”

“Rude,” you muscle out a complaint even though you really like the way he’s touching your cheeks.

“No, it’s called critiquin’ your work an’ givin’ you honest feedback.” He grins, “That’s the sorta thing you fuckin’ do with your boyfriend.”

“Aw hell yeah,” you lean forward and kiss him again.


End file.
